


Would You Gain the Tender Creature

by sithmarauder



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - No Tuunbaq, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Flirting, Getting Together, M/M, Mutual Pining, Obliviousness, Pining, Shockingly enough., Thomas Jopson and his saintly patience, putting Ned Little through the emotional ringer for fun and pleasure, so many loaded looks you could turn it into a drinking game, the real Terror is the captain’s steward we meet along the way, trust me Ned he's noticed you, vague D/s undertones
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-21
Updated: 2020-06-21
Packaged: 2021-03-04 08:46:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,125
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24847021
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sithmarauder/pseuds/sithmarauder
Summary: Jopson smiled.He has dimples,Edward thought with no small amount of despair.For better or for worse, Edward Little was sure Thomas Jopson barely noticed him at all.
Relationships: Thomas Jopson/Lt Edward Little
Comments: 36
Kudos: 136





	Would You Gain the Tender Creature

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TheGreenMeridian](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheGreenMeridian/gifts).



> For [thegreenmeridian](https://thegreenmeridian.tumblr.com/) on tumblr, who requested "Edward moping about how he has Immoral Feels for Jopson that Jopson obviously will never return because he’s so Good and Pure, and being completely oblivious to the fact that Jopson has in fact been flirting with him and coming onto him. And Jopson snapping and making it very, very obvious in some way." 
> 
> 6k later, here I am. It's possible this got away from me a bit. Title taken from Georg Friedrich Händel's _Acis & Galatea_: “Would you gain the tender creature / Softly, gently, kindly treat her: / Suff'ring is the lover's part.”
> 
>  **EDIT** : now with [a lovely edit](https://sasheenka.tumblr.com/post/622741861261557760) by [sasheenka](https://sasheenka.tumblr.com/)!

To have Jopson’s attention on him, even for just a moment, was as exquisite a torture as it was a blessing. Stewards were a necessity on any ship, sometimes seen and sometimes heard, but Edward could not remember ever noticing a steward as much as he noticed Thomas Jopson, and the knowledge of just why that was had caused Edward many a sleepless night as he grappled with the guilt that so often accompanied such realisations.

It was immoral, it _wrong_ , a preoccupation that could not be allowed to continue, and yet as he lifted his head he found his traitorous eyes seeking out Jopson’s form nonetheless, to the other officers little more than a ghost in dark wool as he flittered between those gathered, in and out with a dextrous ease that made Edward feel flush under the collar of his uniform.

 _Enough_ , he told himself firmly, brow furrowing as he struggled to return his attention to the conversations of his peers. Part of him, bitter and morose, wished this meeting could have taken place on _Erebus—_ Edmund Hoar was certainly less distracting in his duties—but he dismissed the desire as unkind and, more to the point, unavailing. Jopson was a consummate professional and nothing but, and Edward would not punish him, in thought or in deed, for his own desires; his own failings.

Still, as Jopson leaned over to deftly refill Captain Crozier’s drink, he could not help the way his eyes followed every movement, catching briefly on Jopson’s hands, lily-white and lovely. The creature of want, which seemed to have taken up permanent residence in his chest, awoke with a satisfied purr. Edward pushed it back down, the food he was trying to eat like a rock in his stomach. He swallowed the sigh that threatened to escape, slowly lowering his fork to the table in front of him, and tried to concentrate on whatever it was Sir John was saying, the man’s paternal cheer grating where it was usually just a fact of existence.

He managed to feign attention for a time, smiling—if somewhat distantly—in the right places, offering a word or two where it was due, but Jopson’s presence was never far from his mind, and when the man moved forward to refill a glass across the table from him Edward could not help but glance over, hoping the motion looked at least somewhat ambivalent.

Jopson’s eyes flicked up, just for a moment, but for that moment they settled unwaveringly on Edward, and the brief quirk of Jopson’s mouth had Edward’s breath catching in his lungs. _Hush, ye pretty warbling quire_ , he thought, only a touch desperately. He should look away, he knew, but to do so hurriedly would be to invite further suspicion, so he merely inclined his head briefly, ignoring the way his chest monster purred even louder when Jopson’s lashes lowered in a show of deference. Still, Edward did not miss the small smile that softened the steward’s face, or the way his pale eyes glimmered in the cabin’s lighting, and he felt despair settle over his shoulders like a phantom embrace.

He could not drag Jopson down into his dereliction of sense and morality. He couldn’t. He _wouldn’t_. To be first lieutenant on board _Terror_ was to be at least as professional and dutiful as the man in front of him, if not more so.

Professional. Dutiful. Yes, he could be that, and all he had to do was put Jopson and his too-knowing eyes out of sight, out of mind.

Edward resisted the urge to lower his head to the table. It was going to be a long winter.

* * *

“Lieutenant Little,” Jopson greeted, looking up from his task to where Edward stood hovering uncomfortably in the doorway to Crozier’s cabin.

“Mr. Jopson.”

Jopson inclined his head, taking a moment to place the crystal decanter back in its secured spot in the precariously-slanted cabinet before turning to face Edward fully, expression courteous, as always, though there was a spark of warmth in his eyes that made Edward feel a slight less frozen than he had only minutes prior. He stared for a beat, blinking slowly, and for a moment he was sure he saw another ghostly smile flicker across Jopson’s face, but it was gone seconds later and Edward figured he must have imagined it.

“Mr. Blanky has the the latest ice reports,” he said. Jopson nodded, face carefully neutral; a veneer of politeness. His eyes were easily the brightest thing in the room. _Christ, Ned._

“Of course. If you would wait a few minutes, Lieutenant, the captain will return momentarily, and you can speak to him then. Would you like to sit in the meantime? Something to drink?” The sentence was punctuated with a perfunctory smile, but that earlier warmth was still present, and Edward felt a pang of longing so acute it was all he could do to keep still and give a courteous nod of his own in response to the inquiry. It was only natural that his eyes traced Jopson’s movements as the man went about his duties, he told himself—after all, there was no one else in the room, and therefore no one else to bother watching. For all that Jopson strove to fade into the background when in the presence of the officers, as any good steward must, Edward hoped he could be forgiven for pulling the man into the light now, so to speak. Besides, a ghost had to be visible some of the time, lest he be less a ghost and more a figment of one’s imagination.

 _It would be easier if he were_ , Edward thought morosely when he caught Jopson’s eye again, the steward’s mouth— _red_ , _like cherries_ —still quirked into a smile that seemed all together too knowing. That wasn’t surprising either, Edward supposed. After all, he paid attention, he knew that Crozier and Jopson had served together for years; knew that Crozier, a seasoned man, relied on his steward for information that others would keep from him.

 _A good steward is invaluable_. It wasn’t something he’d read, just something he had observed, and Jopson, he was sure, was more invaluable than most.

Jopson deftly placed a glass in front of him— _“should take away the bite of the cold, sir”_ —and Edward nodded his thanks.

“Is this much like the Antarctic, then?” Edward asked, the words coming out stiff, and he concealed a wince. The captain had mentioned the harshness of this place, the extreme cold, and Edward could not help but wonder if that same cold had crept into his chest, into his lungs, numbing his social graces alongside his sense and decency. Luckily, Jopson did not seem to take offence, though Edward noted a brief flicker of surprise in his eyes.

“Very little,” came the reply. “Besides the ice and the cold, there was a life to that place that is not present here, though I suppose both are equally deadly, in their own way.” Jopson glanced towards the window, where nothing but endless white greeted them as far as the eye could see. “I remember sailing close to what Sir Ross and the captain called the ‘High Island’, just one of many landmark features that were being recorded. Such snow that covered them. The closer we sailed, however, the more we realized that not only were the islands not islands at all, the snow was instead a great, billowing smoke emitting from the High Island, which was itself a great mountain, far surpassing anything I have ever seen.” He cocked his head to the side and blinked slowly, the action almost coquettish, though Edward was sure Jopson did not mean it in such a way. “I do believe they ended up naming that particular mountain Mount Erebus.”

Edward, who had leaned forward slightly, caught up in the steady cadence of Jopson’s voice, cleared his throat and nodded. “Not Mount Ross?” he ventured, surprised by his own boldness, but the way Jopson's face creased with a smile had him trying not to fall forward again.

“No, not quite the sound he was going for, although I do believe we named a seal after him.” Jopson’s eyes sparkled. “And perhaps an ice shelf or two.”

“Just one or two?” Edward asked, a faint smile of his own appearing when Jopson’s became fuller, more genuine. 

“And a bit of the sea.”

“Naturally.”

Jopson chuckled. Edward, having never heard the sound before, immediately wished to hear it more frequently. The steward’s pale eyes were still sparkling when he looked up, the smile still dancing on his mouth. Edward’s grip tightened on the glass in his hand, and he immediately lifted it to his mouth to take as big a sip as he dared, grateful he did not splutter as the spirits burned their way through his body.

“Do you miss it?” Edward asked after a moment had passed, oddly comfortable despite the fact that the air suddenly felt too hot, the weight of Jopson’s warm regard heavy on his shoulders.

There was no immediate reply, and then Jopson hummed, picking up one of the crystal glasses to resume polishing. “I suppose I miss the comparative diversity of the terrain. But,” he said, glancing over again and catching Edward’s gaze, holding it from beneath partially-lowered lashes, “there are some lovely sights out here as well, I’m finding.”

It was on the tip of Edward’s tongue to ask for clarification, for surely Jopson grew tired of naught but endless ice, but Crozier’s entrance had the question dying on his tongue as he immediately rose to attention, unsure whether he was relieved or disappointed when Jopson’s focus shifted to the captain as well.

“Lieutenant. Jopson,” Crozier said. Jopson nodded his head, a respectful _sir_ gliding off his tongue, echoed by Edward in less melodic tones. The reports were the work of a moment to deliver, and he was dismissed shortly thereafter, but he could not help glancing back just once, the foolish longing of an equally foolish man.

Jopson looked up. Caught his gaze again. Held it. Inclined his head, the corners of his mouth pulling up.

Edward left distinctly warmer than he had entered, the slow curve of Jopson’s mouth haunting him all the while.

* * *

Thomas Jopson was a good man. Edward knew that with bullheaded certainty. He was a good man, a loyal one, and the captain’s regard for him spoke volumes, whether Jopson was aware of it or not. Were _Terror_ and _Erebus_ in possession of ten more Thomas Jopsons, Edward knew their time in the Discovery Service would be going a mite smoother than it was, and not just because the steward had more experience with this type of expedition than a good deal of the officers aboard the two ships, himself included.

It would be easier if Jopson were less than he was. Less _what_ Edward did not know, but _less_ all the same—less _anything_ , really, if only because then perhaps he would not occupy such a large portion of Edward’s thoughts in his rare moments of downtime. William Gibson was a decent enough man too, after all, but it wasn’t Gibson that occupied his thoughts as he lay awake in his cramped berth, the only sound the whistling of the arctic wind and the occasional groan from _Terror_ as she bemoaned her captive status. It wasn’t Gibson whose presence was enough to chase away the icy chill of the arctic.

It wasn’t Gibson he saw when he closed his eyes, his body stirring to attention at the thought of pale blue eyes and cherry-red lips; of dark hair and deft hands.

 _Enough_ , Edward thought harshly, forcing himself to roll over until he was nearly on his stomach—the only way he could think of to remove the temptation at hand. _Thomas Jopson is a good man_ , he reminded himself, grim with determination. _You do him a disservice with this nonsense. Good God, man, one smile and you have lost your wits; no better than a boy his first time seeing a doxy Worse: at least the doxy might look twice._

The self-recriminations followed him into an uneasy doze, his last thoughts a prayer for the miracle of spring.

* * *

“Beg pardon, sir,” Jopson murmured when Edward ran into him for the second time in as many days, the stewards arms laden with linens as he picked his way through one of _Terror’s_ strangely empty corridors.

“Jopson,” he said, inclining his head in greeting. Protocol would have dictated Jopson stand aside for him, but it was the work of a moment for Edward to step aside instead, allowing the steward greater movement in the cramped space.

“Much obliged, sir,” Jopson said. Edward, momentarily struck dumb by the feeling of Jopson’s body sliding against his as he eased by, could only manage a brief nod. Jopson’s eyes seemed to darken for a moment—not in malice or anger, but something Edward could not quite name. It brought out the blue, he thought. Made them look deeper. _Easier to drown in._

_God’s sake._

He stared after Jopson a moment longer, then turned and continued on his way.

* * *

“Lieutenant,” Jopson greeted when Edward ran into him the next evening, preparing to make the trip over to _Erebus_ at Sir John’s request. _Odd_ , Edward thought of Jopson’s presence, but then Jopson brushed against him in the narrow corridor and it was all Edward could do to prevent himself from freezing utterly still. He kept his gaze trained on the bulkhead, just over Jopson’s shoulder, the lit lanterns casting an eery gloom in the semi-darkness.

“Ah, sir, your collar,” Jopson said, hesitating, and Edward turned his head to blink slowly at him, brow furrowing a bit in confusion before he glanced down. He had quietly sent Gibson to tend to the other officers that evening, preferring to don the uniform himself for that evening’s dinner, but perhaps that had been unwise. Distraction made for absent hands, it seemed, and he felt embarrassment creep up his neck as he wondered what Jopson must think of him, a man grown seemingly unable to dress himself.

He heard Jopson hum, a low sound, one he would have missed if they hadn’t been alone—it must be years of service that gave Jopson the ability to best sense when the corridors would be empty, he reasoned—before Jopson stepped closer and lifted his hands.

“With your permission, sir,” he murmured, one hand hovering over the lapels of Edward’s uniform. Edward gave a curt nod, and Jopson smiled briefly before pressing one hand against his breast, sliding the other one up and alongside to work at the collar of Edwards’s white facings before he smoothed his hands along Edward’s shoulders, straightening the epaulettes with deft movements and an expression of concentration.

“Much better,” Jopson said, one hand brushing the epaulette again before they returned to rest momentarily at the front once more. “You will cut quite a figure on _Erebus_ , sir.” Hands still in place, he looked up through his lashes, and _oh_ , _what mortal fears dying when beauty’s the prize,_ Edward thought, nearly choking, wishing with all he had that he were anything but a mortal man. Jopson tilted his head slowly to the side and Edward, trapped, could only stare back, his face utterly blank even as everything inside of him _burned_.

“Thank you, Mr. Jopson,” he said when the silence started to stretch on for too long.

“Happy to be of service, sir. In all things.” Jopson stepped back then, as much as he was able, leaving Edward to make his way into the cold above deck alone, his only companion his own guilt and a sense of resignation that would follow him for the rest of the evening.

* * *

_Happy to be of service, sir,_ Jopson’s voice whispered, _crooned_ , as Edward lifted an arm to cover his own face, dismayed by his own depravity. _In all things_.

He let out a harsh sigh, rolling onto his stomach again and squeezing his eyes shut. _Enough. Enough of this._

But he fell asleep to Jopson’s voice lowered to an intimate pitch Edward could only imagine, and if Jopson noticed how for an entire week Edward could not meet his eyes for more than a few moments, well.

 _Well._ It didn’t matter.

For better or for worse, he was sure Jopson barely noticed him at all.

* * *

Summer brought with it no reprieve, and so the ships remained as they were, held securely in the ice’s embrace—a possessive thing that threatened to suspend them in time as much as it did in person.

“Signs of a cold May,” Crozier mocked, an audibly bitter edge to his words as they stood and looked over the ice, nearly indistinguishable from the barren land it joined them all to. Edward said nothing in return, his assent conveyed through the silence, only broken by the movements of the men and the creaking of the mizenmast. Aft, he noticed movement, his attentions drawn to a head of familiar dark hair as Jopson walked the decks of _Terror_ accompanied by the assistant surgeon, MacDonald’s kindly face creased in a smile as the two men no doubt took in some much-needed fresh air. When Jopson noticed them, he inclined his head, and Edward found himself watching, hands still at his side, Jopson’s regard unwavering.

“Edward,” Crozier said. Edward blinked, redirecting himself.

“Sir?”

Crozier eyed him critically. Edward wondered, not for the first time, if Crozier was disappointed by the officers assigned to him, when even the captain’s steward had more experience with the ice and the cold than they. He resisted the urge to look back towards Jopson. If Crozier found him wanting, then he would simply have to prove that he was not.

By the time they returned their attentions to the ice, Jopson was gone. _For the best_ , Edward told himself gruffly. He’d accepted the preoccupation, such as it was, as he’d accepted the fact that it would never be acted on. It was simply how things were.

It was simply how things had to be.

* * *

“How long have you served with the captain?” Edward asked one night as he accompanied Jopson below deck, the task of securing the captain’s spirits one which had forged a strange, silent understanding between the two of them as of late. Such was Jopson’s dedication to Crozier, Edward supposed, that the man refused to speak a word of his misgivings, refused to let even an inkling of judgement enter his expression or his voice, every report delivered with calm, measured tones, a counterbalance to Edward’s own increasingly gruff, blunt mannerisms.

“Close to ten years now, sir,” Jopson said.

“Edward,” Edward corrected absently, trying to picture Thomas Jopson as he would have been ten years ago, eyes alight as Mount Erebus loomed in front of him, then promptly decided that some things were better left unimagined. Jopson snuck a quick look at him. Then, uttering a soft _hm_ , he returned to his search before asking, somewhat unexpectedly: “I suppose this is not how you expected to spend the vast majority of this expedition.”

Edward blinked. “Trapped in ice?”

“That, too.” Jopson rose to his feet, smart in his dark wool, illuminated by the lanterns. 

“I’m no more eager to escape it than anyone else, I’d imagine,” Edward said, nodding to a couple of the petty officers as they strolled past, on their way to the galley with the vast majority of the crew.

Jopson cocked his head to the side. The sight awoke a tug of longing in Edward’s chest, as it always did, a desire to reach out and brush his fingers along that smooth jaw, but he had long since become resigned to such impulses and desires, letting the hopelessness of them settle on his shoulders as surely as his acceptance of spending yet another month frozen in this place had.

“Blanky is eager,” Edward offered. He rolled his shoulders in a slow shrug when Jopson flicked a prompting look at him, something he did more often these days whenever they were attending the captain together. “He spoke of his wife. Corporal Hedges, too. I believe he was newly married.” Edward frowned, trying to recall the details, but all he remembered was the pinched look on William Hedges’ face as he muttered that he hoped the glory of the Northwest Passage was worth such a long absence, the sentiment immediately followed by more drink and knowing nods from his fellow marines.

“No Mrs. Little waiting for you at home then, sir?” Jopson inquired, turning his head away as he asked, emitting a soft noise when he at last secured the captain’s whiskey.

“Ah, no,” Edward said, clearing his throat. The idea of having someone to return home to seemed a foreign concept, one he was not sure he wanted, if only because he had never truly allowed himself to think on the possibility of it. Trapped in the middle of the arctic was certainly no time to start.

“Shame,” Jopson said, but as Jopson walked towards him, bottle in hand, Edward couldn’t help but think that he did not sound all that sorry at all.

* * *

That night he dreamed of a small house in the countryside and coming home to a pair of pale blue eyes and a cherry-red smile. He woke with an unbearably hard weight in his chest to match other parts of his anatomy, and the bleak knowledge that home was as far away as his dream was impossible.

* * *

Left aboard _Terror_ for that day’s sup and all the more glad for the respite, Edward certainly hadn’t expected his evening to culminate in an armful of Thomas Jopson, his mind gone carefully blank as he held the steward’s warm body against his own.

“My apologies, sir,” Jopson said, cheeks flushed a deep red from where he stood pressed against Edward’s chest, Edward’s still arms wrapped firmly around him where they’d flown automatically in an attempt to break the steward’s fall. “It seems I misstepped.”

“Yes,” Edward said, hoping his voice sounded less strained to Jopson than it did to him. Even through his woollen coat the heat of Jopson’s body was a searing line against his person, addictive and heady, and he found he could think of little else as Jopson continued to remain firmly enclosed in his embrace. He cleared his throat.

“All right, then?”

Jopson smiled. _He has dimples_ , Edward thought with no small amount of despair.

“I am,” Jopson said, pressing one hand gently against Edward’s chest. Edward’s height did not far surpass Jopson’s own, but it was enough so that when Jopson looked up Edward was treated to the sight of pale eyes peeking at him through dark lashes. _In defence of my treasure, I’d bleed at each vein_. He opened his mouth. Closed it. Slowly lowered his arms and stepped back, hoping Jopson would attribute the redness of his own face to his recent return from the cold.

Jopson’s smile seemed strained at the edges, and Edward averted his gaze. He heard Jopson sigh, distantly, but when he looked up again the man appeared as professional as ever, his expression courteous, if a tad pinched. Edward hoped that he did not feel any shame for the stumble—it happened to even the most sure-footed of men.

“Lieutenant,” Jopson murmured, dipping his head as he slipped by, brushing past Edward, heedless of the way Edward’s eyes followed him down the otherwise empty corridor.

 _This cannot continue_ , Edward thought desperately.

He knew it would nonetheless.

* * *

MacDonald’s laughter, infectious for all that it was a quiet thing, stirred the others into cheer, and even Edward felt something ease in him as the small group of gathered men swapped stories of home over canned dinners, a welcome escape from talk of ice, or of Sir John’s death two months prior—another victim of tuberculosis, like those they’d left to rocky tombs on Beechey Island what seemed a lifetime ago.

He was just allowing himself to fade into the lull of the voices around him when Jopson swept in, pulling his cap from his head in one fluid motion. He caught Edward’s eye for a moment before allowing himself to be pulled into a conversation with the captain’s coxswain and MacDonald, the latter of whom greeted him with a friendly smile, which was almost enough to offset the way Gibson’s blank countenance seemed to darken for a moment.

Edward frowned, then put Gibson far from mind when Thomas ended up pressed next to him, an anchor in the muted chaos. When he felt Jopson’s fingers curl briefly against his palm he blinked, visibly jerked from his thoughts, prompting a soft laugh from Peglar. Edward said nothing. In such close quarters, such contact was bound to happen.

It meant nothing.

It couldn’t mean anything.

* * *

“Do you have a wife, Jopson?” Edward asked, immediately regretting the question when Jopson raised a single eyebrow at him, turning his body halfway to face Edward more fully.

“No, sir.” He said nothing else, but Edward found himself the recipient of another of the pointed looks Jopson had taken to sending him over the shoulders of the other officers. Edward, realizing how close he was standing to the steward’s back, flushed and took a step back. Jopson seemed to bite back a sigh, and Edward took that as his cue to leave. Thomas Jopson was a good man, but he was also just that: a _man_ , and every man on this ship was feeling the year trapped in ice keenly. He would not begrudge Jopson a moment of expressed frustration.

“Jopson,” he murmured, turning to leave. He wasn’t sure if he imagined Jopson’s vexed answer of _Lieutenant Little_ , but he did not turn back to check.

* * *

“You’ve snow, Lieutenant,” Jopson said, lifting one hand and indicating the general area of Edward’s face, which Edward was sure was frozen so as to resemble some sort of snow beast.

“I have it,” Edward said, holding out the pilfered whiskey lullaby in one stiff hand. Jopson’s mouth thinned momentarily, and he cast a look at the closed door to Crozier’s berth before reaching out to take the bottles, placing them quickly in one of the cabinets. Edward, not having any reason to linger beyond selfish desires, turned to go, but was stopped by Jopson’s firm “ _Lieutenant_.”

He said nothing as Jopson reached out, maintaining a silence that was only broken by the sudden shaking of his own body as Jopson carefully divested him of his sodden overcoat.

“Gibson—”

“Has long retired,” Jopson murmured, eyes flickering to the captain’s door. “Let me, Lieutenant.”

“Edward,” Edward said, as he had many times before. A faint smile was his response, and then Jopson was carefully rubbing the feeling back into his frozen limbs, placing Edward’s soaked attire over one of the chairs.

“I will have it sent to be laundered,” Jopson said, and Edward nodded. No more words passed between them that night, and Edward thought he would forever carry with him the sensation of Jopson’s bare hands against his own. _Thomas Jopson is a good man_ , Edward thought, exhaling harshly as Jopson ushered him through _Terror’s_ silent corridors, every movement deliberate and calm as he helped thaw Edward enough for him to climb into his own berth, the steward even taking the time to help dry Edward's thick mop of hair, which had been soaked through by the storm.

“Thank you, Jopson,” Edward said when he felt his himself capable of speech again. Jopson smiled. He looked impossibly soft in the glow of the lantern, impossibly ethereal—impossibly not Edward’s. It was a familiar thought; a known burden of fact.

“Anytime, sir,” he murmured. “You need only ask.”

* * *

“Jopson,” Edward tried a week later when he caught the man between duties. Jopson stilled, looking him expectantly. Edward forced himself to continue, committed to the doomed trajectory he feared he’d taken. “Have you ever assisted any of the other lieutenants?” _The way you assisted me the other night?_ The question was out of line, and Jopson would be well within his rights not to answer, but Jopson merely conveyed a look that Edward could recognize these days as pointed.

“No, sir.”

He wanted to ask why, it was on the tip of his tongue, but in the end Edward swallowed the words and gave a slow nod, glancing away. He’d done enough damage, he feared, and did not wish to be responsible for Jopson falling behind in his duties.

Jopson made a noise all the more noticeable for how uncharacteristically frustrated it sounded, but when Edward glanced up he was the picture of poise and professionalism.

“Good day, Lieutenant,” he said. As Edward listened to the sharp sound of his boots against the wood of _Terror’s_ floors, he wondered what it was he was missing.

* * *

He dreamed of firm hands on his body, commands given in a familiar voice, of warmth and surety and direction he did not feel any conflict in obeying. A soft mouth pressed against the palm of his hand, his wrist, and fingers curled in his hair, bringing him down down _down_ until the concept of air was something utterly forgotten, lost to the sensation of the body pressed against him, the heat surrounding him.

He woke to the taste of cherries and a foreboding sense of imminent disaster.

* * *

It was a shaky but noticeably more hale Crozier who prepared to make the journey to _Erebus_ that evening, leaving Edward in charge of _Terror_ alongside a reluctant Jopson, who seemed wary at the idea of allowing Crozier anywhere out of his sight, and who had only been placated by the captain’s assurance that Mr. Blanky would be the firmest of caretakers.

“I trust that Edward will see to the upkeep of the ship,” Crozier said, words Edward was sure he wasn’t supposed to hear as he lingered awkwardly just outside the captain’s cabin. “I want you to promise me that you will use the opportunity to get some rest.”

“Sir—”

“That’s an order, Jopson,” Crozier said, but there was an almost paternal softness to his voice as he said it, tinged with regret. Edward remained as silent as he dared, not wishing to break the moment, one he suspected Jopson, who had run himself ragged these past few weeks, sorely needed. Edward Little did not achieve the rank of first lieutenant and erstwhile acting captain for being a fool—he knew all too well that part of the reason Crozier was insisting they stay behind was for their own benefit, his and Jopson’s, after weeks of secrets and the burdens of care and unwanted command. It would have rankled him, were his limbs not so thoroughly suffused with the heavy weight of melting cold and a lingering, pervasive, bone-deep wretchedness.

“Take care, sir,” Jopson said moments later, and Edward stepped back from the door as Crozier emerged, nodding respectfully.

“Edward,” Crozier said, and then he was gone, off to meet Blanky and Captain Fitzjames in the thawing air above.

“Lieutenant,” Jopson greeted as Edward entered. He was leaning against one of the cabin supports, clad in his now-familiar red and black attire, and Edward knew that were it not for the last few weeks they had spent together—working in such close quarters, partners in a paramount deception—Jopson would not be allowing Edward to see him as anything less than perfectly composed and straight-backed, the very picture of professional duty.

The glimpse into the vulnerable side of Jopson, and the knowledge that it was a glimpse offered willingly, softened the tight line of Edward’s shoulders. “Edward,” he corrected, firmer than he had ever spoken it before, the edge softened with a sincerity he hoped Jopson could feel. His respect and affections for the other man had only deepened, and these last few weeks had seem them progress to a point where he suspected Jopson was suffused as deeply into his bones as the ice. Jopson had always been a strange creature to him, a man poised on the edge of the otherworldly, unattainable and unreal, but now he felt so much more human, and far from dimming Edward’s regard, it had only made him more admirable.

At the very least, were he to love someone as sorrily as he did, he could not bring himself to regret the fact that it was Jopson who had taken up residence where his heart had once beat.

“Lieutenant,” Jopson said, soft. He hesitated, briefly, before slipping past Edward to the door of the great cabin, but instead of leaving to partake in an evening of rest, as Edward had assumed he would, Jopson instead slid the door firmly shut, engaging the lock. “Edward.” He turned back, looking determined. Intense. Edward, caught in his orbit, by the sound of his name on Jopson’s lips, could only stare back.

“Edward,” Jopson repeated, stepping forward, coming to rest in front of Edward, who stood silhouetted by one of the cabin’s windows.

“Jopson,” Edward replied. Mirth sparkled in Jopson’s eyes, mixed with a fond sort of exasperation. A hand reached out to settle against the lapels of Edward’s coat, sliding up to rest on his upturned collar, and Edward would have stopped breathing had his mind not gone carefully blank again in a desperate bid to process Jopson’s closeness, his proximity, the intent behind his actions.

“Jopson?” he managed, the question gruff and stiff and horrifying desperate. Jopson just smiled.

“Thomas,” he said. Edward’s hands came up to slowly encircle Jopson’s wrists, but he aborted the action halfway through, confusion the only emotion he felt himself capable of expression. Jopson made a noise then, amusement tinged with exhaustion and a year’s worth of frustration.

“God save me from noble lieutenants,” he said, as exasperated as Edward had ever heard him, moments before his hands were fisting in Edward’s lapels and Edward was being dragged into an aggressive, impossibly deep kiss.

In the operas Edward had treated himself to on the mainland, there was always a beat after such moments, a pause, but Edward was not a character in a play—he was a navy man, through and through, one who had learned that sometimes one must simply act with instinct with the situation called for it. It was how he had caught Jopson in that corridor all those months ago, and he thought about that now as he pulled the other man flush against him, a wounded noise escaping him as he felt Jopson’s hands slide into his hair, as he swallowed the pleased sigh Jopson made as he did so, a sound tinged with longing, almost as though Jopson had been waiting as long as him, _aching_ the way he had been, and—

He blinked. Drew back. Lifted his own hands to Jopson’s face, still keeping him as close as he dared, finally allowing himself to touch that which he had never allowed himself to truly hope for. He thought of cherries, of ice and snow, of biting cold and searing heat, and found all of them in the face of the man before him. One hand fell from Jopson’s face to curl around his waist.

“You—how?”

Jopson huffed, but the fondness in his eyes belied the sound. “Oh, Edward,” was all he said before guiding Edward’s head down for another kiss, until Edward wanted nothing more than to bury himself in this man, to subsume himself into Thomas Jopson until nothing else remained—a man given the forbidden fruit at last, this impossible seat of soft delight.

Later, bare skin against Jopson’s own, he would question it. Would groan, embarrassed, and press his face into the crook of Jopson’s neck as the man wryly recounted endless attempts to inform Edward of his reciprocal interest to no avail.

For now, however, with the whole of Jopson’s regard focused solely on him, he let himself sink into the moment, a part of himself that he did not remember putting to sleep coming awake with a contented purr and a pleased _growl_ as heat spread from his chest all throughout his veins, thawing parts of him long since frozen as Jopson guided him into another kiss, slow and sweet save for the teasing nip at the end of it. Edward let his eyes fall shut, his face flushed, his neck warm. Felt the solidness of Jopson’s body against his own, a brand he would gladly take. Basked in the dichotomy of the impossible made not just probable, but _his_.

“Edward,” Thomas sighed. Edward shuddered. Drew him closer. Kissed him deep.

Perhaps the miracle of spring had come after all.

**Author's Note:**

> And then the ice magically thaws, no dismembered legs occur, and they all make it back to England and are hailed as heroes and Edward buys a house in the countryside for him and Jopson, the end.
> 
> **REFERENCES**  
>  \- Edmund Hoar was the captain’s steward aboard _Erebus_.  
> \- “Hush, ye pretty warbling quire,” is from Händel’s _Acis & Galatea_, quire being an archaic spelling for choir in this instance, and not the 15th century manuscript folding. Edward Little is a baroque man. You cannot change my mind.  
> \- “In defence of my treasure, I’d bleed at each vein” _Acis & Galatea_.  
> \- Jopson’s description of Mount Erebus was taken and modified from James Clark Ross’ own. See pg. 216,  
> Ross, James Clark. _A Voyage of Discovery and Research in the Southern and Antarctic Regions, During the Years 1839-43: Volume 1_. Vol. I. 2 vols. London: John Murray, 1847.  
> \- Yes, “Ross seals” and the Ross Ice Shelf are a thing. The Ross Ice Shelf is within/covers part of the Ross Sea within the Ross Dependency, so really, I feel I’m somewhat justified in dragging him a little.  
> \- William Hedges served as a corporal in _Terror’s_ marine detachment, and records indicate he had married a woman named Eliza in 1844, a year before he signed on to the expedition.  
> \- “what mortal fears dying when beauty’s the prize” slightly modified from “when beauty's the prize, what mortal fears dying?” _Acis & Galatea_.  
> \- MacDonald and Jopson are friends. I have spoken.  
> \- “The captain’s coxswain” was John Wilson, for those who are curious. I don’t believe he was in the show, but who knows.  
> \- Why cherries? I rest the blame for the cherries solely at [vegetas’](https://archiveofourown.org/users/vegetas/pseuds/vegetas) feet and will accept no criticism or rebuttal.
> 
> Thank you so much for sticking with me, and please let me know what you think of this miniature monster of a fic! I am floored on the daily by the kindness and support this fandom has shown me, and appreciate it more than I think I can rightly express.
> 
> As always, I can be found on [tumblr](https://empirics.tumblr.com/). Come chat with me about history, or if there's a prompt you want to see written, please feel free to send it my way!


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